Paint the Town, Dove
Chapter One
Ryden
“Don’t worry, darling. It will all be okay. But why was he always around? Why did he stay?”
Arc screams and shouts of people who knew nothing, yet everything all at once, trumpeted through the air.
“Headphones, Morty. Headphones.”
His grip was secure around my bicep as the other security detail, none of which I recognized, formed a square around me.
“Mr. Spectre, have you spoken to Yasmine Ryvetts?”
“Mr. Spectre, Yasmine was spotted out with Pierce Spindley of Avenue Records. Thoughts?”
Thoughts. Thoughts. So many thoughts. None of which I wanted to concern myself with. Especially thoughts of my recent partner.
“Mr. Spectre, up and coming rock legend Otis Hardwell and Yasmine Ryvetts are rumored to be working on –”
“Headphones, Morty! Fuck!” I slid my palm down his blazer, pressing into his hardened shell as I felt him for earbuds, earmuffs, Christ, a fucking Walkman – something! Something to drown out the noise.
The black Suburban doors opened and I was being rushed inside, pushed – shoved. “It’s not a fucking football field!” I don’t know who I was talking to, who was even listening – but someone… someone was –
Someone – someone said something, paralyzing me.
“Mr. Spectre, is it true that your old daddy beat your mum?”
My blood ran cold.
Beat your mum.
Beatbeatbeatbeatbeatbeat –
Beat –
“Ryden, Ryden baby,” her face was bruised, “Ryden honey, it was an accident…”
BEATBEATBEATBEATBEAT –
“He’s paying the bills, he’s helping us, it’s okay, baby, it’s okay…”
And suddenly, I’m a kid again, my fingers twitching with violence, searching for the target.
“Who the fuck –” I broke my goddamn neck trying to find the perp who said it – who spoke out – who…
Who reminded me.
I shook out of Morty’s grip and charged for the velvet ropes separating me from the leeches.
Ah.
Bingo.
“Repeat that again?” I spat, eye to eye with a greasy bald shmuck dressed in plaid rags. “Say what you’re going to say, say it to my fucking face.”
A hand tugged me back. “Mr. Spectre –”
“Fuck off me, Morty!” I ripped, unable to look away from this lowlife poking around where he shouldn’t be.
“Well…” he smirked, flipping down his sad, yellow notepad. “Looks like I’ve got my answer.”
It was an accident, baby –
It was an accident –
HE DIDN’T MEAN TO HURT ME US –
Without hesitation, I twisted my fist around the fabric of his shirt, yanking him to my face before heavy arms wrapped around my middle and pulled me away.
“Fuck YOU!” All sense of reason escaped my body. “Fuck YOU!”
So long, Mr. Golden Boy.
One second my feet were firmly planted on cracked cement, the next I was being thrown into the back seat – Morty at my side – strapped in, caged, locked in my own personal cell once again.
Safe.
Safe.
My fingers found the coke chain cold against my sternum. I held on to it like a locket, tapping the driver’s shoulder. “House of Kings.”
“Mr. Spectre, you have an interview tomorrow for GQ, nine-thirty.” Morty reminded, his voice levelled like usual.
“Cancel it.”
“Ryden,” he tried.
This forced me to face him. Forced me to look at the friend beneath the earpieces and tailored suits. Forced me to see him as an equal rather than a man who worked for me.
His voice was low, sad. “I know that got to you, but all the drinks in the world won’t change your past.”
I challenged his stare, jaw tight. I was searching for a fight, for a reason to kick and scream at him, though there was not a single sign of malice or indignation in his expression. His statement rang true, no matter how hard I fought to believe it.
Nothing you do will change the past.
But damn me if I didn’t try.
“Barnett,” I announced once more, keeping my gaze locked on Morty. “House of Kings, please.”
The Chevy’s engine roared to life as I leaned back into my seat, adjusting my neck into the curve of the headrest. My nose tingled for more. More.
More.
“Who said anything about drinks?” I jibed, turning away from one of the only sane people keen enough to help me forget.
But only one thing was strong enough to do that.
And drugs were more effective anyways.